


The dooms we have imagined

by impossibletruths



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Multiverse Theory, Non-Linear Narrative, Possible Character Death, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-15 22:57:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7242223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibletruths/pseuds/impossibletruths
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say for every choice you make, a hundred different possibilities bloom, a multitude of unique universes, and maybe that is true. Or maybe it is simply fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The dooms we have imagined

**Author's Note:**

> Major spoilers for episode 57.
> 
> Title from “Endymion” by John Keats. _And such too is the grandeur of the dooms/ we have imagined for the mighty dead._

He comes to you late at night, while the castle sleeps, and asks for a moment of your time, and when have you ever been able to say no to him? So you go, and you do not realize the trick until it is too late, and you fall with a blade in your chest, poison pulsing in time with your heartbeat, and the monster above you grins with bared teeth as everything wavers, tilts, fades, and you die there, alone and helpless and––

No. Wait. That is not what happens.

* * *

He comes to you late at night, when it is dark and cold, and asks if you will walk with him, and you go because you owe him this much at least. He takes you to a balcony, the whole of Whitestone laid upon the valley below like a tapestry, a pool of light among the dark forest and the moon glowing high above, but the beauty is ruined by the growl in his voice, an unsettling and unfamiliar rumble, and that is just enough to warn you before he drives cold steel into your abdomen, just enough to prepare you to fight the pulse of poison, and you fall back as the creature pushes into your space, image flickering, friend-monster-friend.

“You cannot run from me, half-elf,” the thing growls, and you start to shout but it waves a hand and bears down on you as your muscles seize, your body no longer your own. In that instant you know: this is it, this is how your story ends, left to bleed out in silence at the top of Whitestone’s highest tower, and no one will ever know that your past finally caught up with you. No one will know, and it will go after your friends and loved ones next, and you cannot warn them because you are––

No. That is not it either.

* * *

“It’s all I think about,” it says, and you can smell the stink of its breath, rotting meat and dead things, and instead of running you charge it, surprise it, and in that split second of advantage you fling the doors open and race down the stairs, shouting into your earring, loud enough to wake the dead, and your friends hear you and come running, and you fight back, and you win, and when you kill it you cut it into a million tiny pieces and pray it stays that way for a thousand years, and––

Ha. If only it were so easy.

* * *

He comes to you, face drawn as he offers an invitation, and you go because you have never been good at saying no to the ones you love. He murmurs concerns as you ascend the tallest tower in Whitestone, and your heart aches for him, aches until his voice changes, until his face changes, until you do not ache but bleed, poisoned dagger in your abdomen, your weapon of choice used against you. The irony does not escape you.

“It’s all I think about,” growls the monster as you pulls backwards, sliding off the blade with a sickening squelch, and this time the blood hot against your skin is not a part of your lady’s ritual; this time it is your own.

You scramble backwards, body following years of rogue training without thinking, one hand holding your bleeding belly, and in a moment of panic go the only place you can think of: over the edge of the balcony. It is enough of a surprise to still the monster’s advance, and there is a window ten feet below you and to the left, but you are bleeding out, poisoned, front slick with blood, and as you shimmy down the wall your foot slips and you are falling, falling, falling, the ground rushing up to meet you, hard and unyielding, and––

* * *

There is a window ten feet below you and to the left, but you are bleeding out, even though you resisted the poison, and your blood-slicked hand slips from the sill and you are falling, falling, falling. Your lady grants you no wings; sometimes there is no second chance, and you hit the ground with a sickening––

No. You do not fall.

* * *

You are bleeding out, poisoned, hands slick with blood, and as you shimmy down the wall your foot slips, but you are lucky tonight, impossibly lucky––or perhaps this is fate; _not all deaths are destined in that moment,_  her voice echoes at your ear _––_ and you catch yourself on the lip of the window sill and haul yourself up, break into the tower and make it down the stairs before the poison takes hold and you are paralyzed, and the monster finds you there, footsteps soft and lazy, and it slits your throat slowly, laughing, telling you how they will find you like this in the morning, how _he_  will find you like this, dead by his own weapon, and you are too weak to fight back––

* * *

You are lucky tonight, impossibly lucky; it is only a flesh wound, and you catch yourself on the sill as you fall and slip into the tower, melting into the shadows, and the monster passes you by, and you raise the alarm when it is gone; it will not have your family––

No, too easy. Its eyes cut through the dark.

* * *

You slip into the tower, melting into the shadows. Hidden, yes, but not hidden enough, and as you call your family for help the fiend finds you and they are too late; you are already cold and broken at the bottom of the stairs; sometimes there are no second chances––

* * *

You walk the halls together in a comfortable silence, born of familiarity, and he takes you to the tallest tower and betrays you, tricks you, a monster wearing the skin of a man, but tonight you are lucky and shrug off the poison, and tonight you are smart, you remember situations like this from before––why is it always you; you were not even seeking it this time––and your fingers find your earring, call for help, but it is past midnight and no one is awake to hear your cry, and the monster takes your moment of weakness to throw you from the balcony. Your friends find you in the morning, body broken; your lady had no wings to grant you this time and your sister cries––

* * *

Your fingers find your earring, call for help, and your friends, light sleepers, always prepared, warriors and fighters and battle-scarred, rescue you. Afterwards you laugh, _why is it always me?_  and it is fine, everything is fine, you are fine, even if you cannot look him in the eye––

No, too lucky. Besides. Is he still alive?

* * *

“It’s all I think about,” the monster growls, and you pull yourself back through strength of will, taking the dagger with you, and you are bleeding but you are also armed, and there is nothing you cannot do with a weapon in your hand. When you shout it, echoes through the courtyard, and you only need to hold on for a moment, for a minute; your family will come for you if you can just hold on a little longer, and it is a near thing but your lady is on your side–– _not all deaths are destined in that moment––_ and your friends burst forth and rip the creature apart and you live, shaken and bleeding but alive, and the monster is banished, and your heart stops pounding, and––

* * *

You only need to hold on for a moment, for a minute; your family will come for you if you can just hold on, but this is a creature of the Nine Hells and you are a weak thing, already wounded, and you do not hold on. Your family finds a familiar face standing over your bloodied corpse, image flickering, monster-friend-monster, and they are too late; you are gone––

* * *

A quiet knock sounds at your door but you are not there; you are with the fire-haired druid; you are watching over your sister; you are pranking the goliath; you are taking a piss––

* * *

He comes to you late at night, voice soft and eyes hurt, and you walk with him, and you speak with him even though it hurts, and he bids you farewell at his room with a kiss to the cheek and a bittersweet understanding, and there is no monster, no horror, you do not die––

That is a dream. The real world is neither so cruel nor so kind.

* * *

He comes to you late at night, and your instincts are sharp; they warn you as soon as he peeks through the door, and you refuse his invitation. Your sister sleeps on the other side of the wall and your healer dozes across the hall; they are there as soon as you shout. Your family has your back, and you kill the beast again, watch the fury and light fade from its eyes and spit on its corpse––

* * *

Your family has your back, but you do not kill the beast; you blind it and mute it and cripple it and leave it begging for death, because if it is not dead it cannot come back, they say; if it is not dead then it cannot find you again––

Ah, smart. But the trap has already been sprung. This is naught but a wish.

* * *

He comes to you late that night, and someone is awake to see you go. Zahra is still up in the library; Kima slips out of her room to find Allura; Cassandra has not slept well in five years and tonight is no exception. Someone is awake to hear you yell and someone comes running; your friends arrive to see the monster caught in a cage made of arcane energy, Allura’s hand outstretched as she binds it, and only then do you let yourself collapse, safe––

* * *

He comes to you late at night, so late it is almost early, and you go with him because you trust him, and the monster knows it, and it twists the knife as it kills you, whispers how hard he fought, how sweet it was to kill him, and you die with despair in your heart because you cannot save those you love, you never have; this is one more failure to add to your long, long list: mother, sister, friends, sovereign, Emon, Westruun, now him; you are not enough and never have been but it is too late, far too late––

* * *

He comes to you late at night, while the castle sleeps, and asks for a moment of your time, and when have you ever been able to say no to him? So you go, and you do not realize the trick until it is too late, until there is a blade in your stomach, and as you stare into those eyes, inhuman and burning with fury, a thousand and one possibilities surge through you, and––

_you live you break you fall you fly you freeze you yell you pray you die you die you die you––_

––make your choice.

Choose well, Champion.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me, and more CR fic, on tumblr at teammompike.


End file.
